“Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?”
“Damien! How will the talk of a possible German indictment affect your holdings in the European Union?”
My mind is spinning. An indictment? I force myself not to look at Damien, and instead look forward, my face a mask of disinterest. There is no way—no way in hell—that I am letting these vultures see that I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about. Is Stark International in some kind of legal snafu? Is that what he meant by the tapestry unwinding?
“Nikki! Mr. Stark! Germany! Indictment!” The voices blend together into a hideous cacophony. “Richter! Dedication! Damien! Damien! Damien!”
Damien must have summoned Edward without me realizing because the limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the valet stand, and Edward gets out.
“No,” Damien says. “I’ve got it.” As Edward gets back in behind the wheel, Damien tugs me forward, then opens the rear passenger door, his body shielding me from the blinding storm of lights and questions.
I’m just about to slide into the car when Damien pulls his hand from mine, then turns and faces the crowd. A hush falls. Considering Damien’s staunch policy of not talking to the press, I think the paparazzi are at least as shocked as I am.
“I will not be attending the dedication ceremony for the Richter Tennis Center,” Damien says, in the firm clear voice he uses during business meetings. “While I fully support the construction and operation of such a center, I cannot in good conscience support its dedication honoring a man I don’t respect. As for your other questions, neither Ms. Fairchild nor I have any comment.”
Immediately, the air fills with mingled voices, each louder than the next, none discernible. They are shouting follow-up questions, shouting for Damien to turn for a picture, shouting for me to step away from the open limo door. Damien ignores them, turning to face me. I realize that I am still standing frozen, slightly bent midway in the motion of entering the limo.
And then, another voice rises above the noise, this time from the far side of the street.
“Damien Jeremiah Stark!”
I glance at Damien, but his hard expression reveals nothing. I straighten, then peer over the roof of the limo. The reporters have shifted the aim of their cameras, and now their lights are focused on an older man making his way across Flower Street.
“Get into the car,” Damien snaps at me.
“We need to talk,” the man calls out.
I stand frozen.
“Get in,” Damien urges, his voice more gentle.
I comply, but I peer out the far window at the man, and then once more up at Damien. “Who is that?” I ask.
He meets my eyes, his jaw tight, his expression hard. “My father.”
11
Damien slides in beside me and tugs the door closed. “Go,” he says to Edward, who nods and starts to pull slowly out into the street. Reporters scramble to get in front of the car, taking pictures of the limo and of Damien’s father, who is now pounding on the side window and yelling for Damien to stop.
I grab Damien’s hand, then look left at the old man’s face. “Damien,” I say. “Let him in. If you don’t, those reporters are going to eat him alive.”
Silence.
“Damien,” I say gently. “You need to find out why he’s here.”
Damien’s face is tense, his breathing even, and I wish that I knew what he was thinking.
Finally, he squeezes my hand and nods. “Stop,” he tells Edward. “Unlock the doors. And as soon as he’s in, run those goddamned piranhas over if you have to.”
A moment later the old man is inside the limo and Edward is pulling hard to the left and accelerating. I hold my breath, not really caring if a reporter gets squashed, but also not wanting Edward to get into trouble. Then we’re clear and the limo is traveling smoothly down Flower Street. “Make the block,” Damien says. He looks at his father, who’s settled on the seat facing us. “What do you want?”
The old man ignores him, instead focusing on me. “You must be Nikki,” he says. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper with my boy. I’m Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerry.”
“What can we do for you, Mr. Stark?” I ask.
“We,” he repeats, then looks between the two of us. “We,” he says again, then actually guffaws.
I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter. I didn’t like this man before I met him, and I like him even less now.
“Ms. Fairchild asked you a question,” Damien says. “What can we do for you?” I can sense the low bubble of anger rising off Damien, and I hold tight to his hand. I’m certain that this man sitting so casually across from me either abused his son or was complicit in it, and I’m not sure if I’m holding on to Damien to give him support—or to keep from leaping across the limo and slapping the old man’s face.
Jerry shakes his head as if in defeat. “Damien,” he says, then leaves the name hanging.
My initial impression of him is someone oily and untrustworthy, but as I look more closely, I realize that he’s actually attractive, although a little too smooth. Like a man who discovered luxury late in life and has spent the rest of his time trying to play catch-up.
“I repeat,” Damien says, “what can we do for you?”
Jerry leans back in his seat, and his face takes on an unattractive, calculating edge. I can see a bit of how this man managed, despite his low income and working-class background, to maneuver his son onto the international tennis circuit. “What can you do for me? What can you do for me? Not a goddamn thing now. But this ain’t about me. It’s about you. And you managed to fuck it up real good.”
“Did I?” Damien asks coldly. “Let me explain the situation to you. You are in this car only because the lady insisted. If you want to earn the right to stay, then you speak, and you speak clearly. Otherwise, we are through.”
“You want clarity? How’s this: You’re acting like a damn fool, Damien Stark, and I may be a lot of things, but I am not the father of a fool. You get your high-class PR people to put some sort of spin on that nonsense you just spouted. You write a speech that would make angels sing. And you get your ass to that dedication on Friday, and you smile that photogenic smile, and you write a big, fat check if you have to. Because you need to do this, son. You need to push it through. You need to be goddamn squeaky clean, damn you.”
“Don’t call me ‘son.’ ”